


Speed Hating

by Lizburns



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dark Humor, mostly shaw being rude, shaw scaring people, shaw should not go undercover, some kinky talk, some violence, this was a bad idea fusco, undercover Shaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizburns/pseuds/Lizburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw owes Fusco a favor. She must go undercover as a single deadly female to help him find a missing girl. It's speed dating, a special kind of hell for Shaw, but if she's gotta do it, she may as well have fun... horrible... twisted... fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speed Hating

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to make myself laugh. Because last week was tough on everyone i think. I hope it makes you giggle, or at least amuses you.

“I hate you so much right now,” Shaw grumbles to Fusco under her breath as she tugs uncomfortably at the ends of her dress.

 

They've been waiting forever, standing in this long line inside this bar/nightclub/last place Shaw wanted to be right now.

 

“Tough. You owe me one,” he replies. As if Shaw needed any more reminding. Fusco's like an elephant when it comes to remembering that you owe him a favor. And much to her chagrin, this is Shaw paying back in full.

 

At the end of said line, is a decorated table with a clipboard. Shaw shoves her pocket book into Fusco's chest for him to hold so she sign the damn thing.

 

“Whatya got in here? A brick?”

 

“Fifteen pieces of lead, side stacked in a clip and one in the chamber just _raring_ to go,” Shaw says, practically stabbing the pen through the clipboard, before she shoves that at him too. 

 

Fusco squints at her scribbling. “Betty? That's what you wanna be called?” he chuckles as he writes.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothin,” he feigns, poorly. “Interesting choice is all.” Fusco hands the clipboard over to the man sitting behind the table. A moment later they're both given name tags. Fusco sticks his to the lapel of his suit.

 

“You're one to talk,” Shaw remarks, glancing with amusement at the lettering on his chest that says _Richard_. “He spelled _Dick_ wrong.”

 

“Very funny Betty Boop. Put the damn thing on and let's go.”

 

Shaw grudgingly slaps it to her chest and follows Fusco. Still, she can't believe she's doing this. Damn Lionel and his stupid IOU's. But she did make a promise, and if anything, Shaw keeps her word. Even though her word comes back to bite her on the ass sometimes. Times like these.

 

An all too cheery hostess greets them at the podium. Smiling so much, it makes Shaw's face hurt.

 

“Richard! Betty!” She bounces with enthusiasm. “Welcome to Speed Dating!”

 

x

 

“Stop doing that thing with your face,” Fusco tells her. They're standing at the bar in the last few minutes before the speed dating hell begins. He says, “You look angry.” But what he's really trying to say is, _You look unapproachable._

 

“Listen Detective Dick!” Shaw points her finger at him. “You said I had to be here, but you never said I had to be happy about it.” Once again, Shaw pulls at her black dress as it rides too high. Unfortunately, Fusco did include this particular attire in their agreement.

 

 

“Settle down,” he says.

 

Shaw takes a deep breath and does the one to ten counting in her head before she aligns the chackras to better feng shui her inner peace or something like that.

 

“You remember what to do right?” Fusco asks, just as she had merely reached the number five.

 

Shaw just deadpans. Of course she remembers what to fucking do, he only went over it with her like a thousand times. Who does he think she is? Some kind of amateur?

 

“Alright, alright,” he eventually says and backs off, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small photo. “Use this if you need to.” Fusco hands it over and Shaw gives it another once over. It's a picture of pretty young blonde woman smiling on a beach. Rachel Bradford, age 25, missing approximately one week ago to the day. She was last seen here, in this bar, engaged in the very same parade of social awkwardness that Shaw was about to get herself into.

 

Shaw slips the photo into her dress and leans on the bar, counting the minutes she has left before she's forced to interact with... _people._

 

“What's the matter short stack? Afraid cocoa puffs is gonna find out about this?”

 

“Trust me,” Shaw glances around the room, locating camera after camera. “She already knows.”

 

Root's probably watching her right now, laughing no doubt. And if Shaw knows Root well, and she thinks she does, Root's going hijack the comms at some point during the evening and try to make Shaw's face turn fire engine red. Because that's what she likes to do, say inappropriate things to embarrass Shaw enough to force her to ruin another expensive earpiece.

 

“What happened to the surveillance tapes anyway?” She asks him, still peering above to all the lenses seemed to be pointed every which way.

 

“Mysteriously disappeared,” Fusco replies, his tone displaying what little belief he has in that strange coincidence. Shaw finds it rather convenient as well. A girl goes missing along with the only surveillance videos that could point them in the right direction... It makes her wonder what kind of person is behind all this, if there even is. Someone powerful perhaps, Shaw theorizes.

 

“You ever done this before?” Fusco asks candidly, and Shaw knows he's not referring to going undercover. She stops counting all the eyes in the sky in favor of glaring at the two in front of her.

 

“Does it look like I would need, or want...to _ever_ ,” she cringes at the words, “speed-date?”

 

“I dunno.” Fusco scratches his head. “You get five minutes with a person, a bell rings, they move along,” he shrugs. “Thought you'd be game for that.”

 

Clearly, Fusco does not know her well. One minute of forced conversation with a total stranger is already too much.

 

“Tell you what I am game for,” she smiles and motions to the bottles of liquor behind the bar.

 

“Oh no Shaw,” Fusco stops her.

 

And it's like... the needle of the record player, spinning the soundtrack of Shaw's favorite drunken musical, skips right off the vinyl.

 

“Uh, beg your pardon?” Shaw says aggravatingly, hoping he's not about to say what she thinks he is.

 

“Look Shaw, this is a big deal for me alright? So I would appreciate it, if you could remain...

 

“Homicidal?” Shaw cuts in. Because that's how she's going to be if she doesn't get something to smooth over the rough edges.

 

“ _Sober!”_

 

Still. Her tiny conscience hard pressed for alcohol will always try to argue.

 

“I'm going to look odd if I'm the only person without a drink, Lionel,” she points out. And it's like Fusco was expecting that, when he slides over the untouched glass in front of him.

 

“I had the bartender make it just for you,” he smiles.

 

Shaw awkwardly peers in to the brim. “What the hell is this?”

 

“Shirley Temple,” Fusco tells her.

 

Shaw's not sure who's head she wants to bang against the bar top. His... hers... the bartender's for defiling the honor of his sacred profession.

 

“Did I mention I hate you?” Shaw scowls into the glass of sugar water that's supposed to be better than alcohol.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Look, it's about to start. Find out what you can from the fellas and remember, don't hard press for answers or you'll scare em off.”

 

If Shaw somehow stopped scaring people, she'd think she lost her touch.

 

“You act like I've never done an interrogation before,” she scoffs and grins, about to leave him and tread over to her table... and most likely, to her death.

 

Fusco catches her by the arm. “This ain't no interrogation!” he tells her. “It's casual, care free, _dating_! So put away the claws!”

 

Shaw looks at her polished nails and amuses herself with the thought of sharp talons in their place for a moment before rolling her eyes at Fusco. “Consider them retracted.”

 

A familiar cheery voice echos over the loud speaker and announces that it's time to begin, going on to read a list of rules and blah blah blah, Shaw gets the gist of it.

 

She picks up her glass from the bar. “Here we go,” she encourages herself, smiling and brings it to her lips. But she laments as she spits it back out, remembering that it's filled with nothing she cares for, just like this place.

 

x

 

The first guy that comes to her table is  _Chad._ Striped red polo, timid glasses nerd with curly brown hair in desperate need of a trim. He seems skittish as he takes the seat across from Shaw, unsure of what to do with his hands, moving them back and forth between his lap and the table. 

 

“Hi,” he nervously smiles, reaching out for a hand shake. “I'm-”

 

“Chad,” Shaw quickly interrupts, glancing from his name tag to his palm extended which she has no intention of shaking whatsoever. “I know. I can read.” The abrupt laugh he lets out is almost cringe worthy.

 

“Oh, right.” He pulls his arm back to a more favorable distance from Shaw, patting the sticker on his chest, chuckling in that way that might cause her to develop a tick in her right eye. “That's my name! Don't wear it out!” He jokes.

 

Right there, in that very moment, Shaw decides she's gong to tie his name to the back bumper of her car and drag it all throughout New York.

 

“Do you come to a lot of these Chad?”

 

“Well um,” he shrugs, “Every now and then I sup-”

 

“And do they work for you Chad?”

 

“I guess so.” He begins to fiddle with the drink in his hands and Shaw can tell he's starting to grow even more anxious. “There were a few-”

 

“A few casual girlfriends as a result Chad?”

 

“Yeah...”

 

She catches his break in eye contact. Chad looks down into the drink in front of him, the one that Shaw wishes were hers, contemplating something on his mind. She studies him for a moment, wondering if there's more to this, before opening up the flood gates a little more, hitting him with more waves of questions.

 

“They never panned out, did they Chad?” she asks, and his eyes go back to her own piercing ones.

 

“Not re-”

 

“Why not Chad?” The question had left her mouth in a kind of playful curiosity as she cocked her head to one side.

 

“Because well-”

 

“Maybe they liked the shy guy act in the beginning,” she innocently muses, “But after a while it sort of got old and then before you knew it, it was _adios_ Chad.”

 

Shaw bristles at his sudden perplexity. “I-”

 

“Does that make you mad, Chad?” Shaw leans in a little and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Does what make me?”

 

“Rejection.”

 

“No,” he answers immediately, more confused than offended, and that's probably a good sign, but Shaw needs to cover all the bases.

 

“You sure about that Chad?” She asks suspiciously, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. “You sure you're not harboring some kind of hatred or resentment for all women because they just don't understand you?”

 

She widens her stare in expectation.

 

“No of course not.”

 

Shaw nods. This guy doesn't have a bad bone in his body, no signs of aggression, even when she made him sit through, probably the most uncomfortable two minutes of his life. One more question ought to do though. She supposes she could have asked it right off the bat, but, she wanted to gauge a few of his reactions first. And maybe have some fun in the meantime.

 

“Were you here last Friday?” she asks, and he shakes his head no. And if he was lying, Shaw would see it.

 

He's not her guy.

 

“Well!” she claps her hands together, smiling bright eyed an cheery like, and it hurts her face. “Great talk.”

 

But somehow he takes this as a hopeful sign and loosens up a bit, smiles and laughs in relief like this was all one big joke.

 

Nope. Shaw's going to put a stop to that immediately.

 

She lets her face go back into it's favored resting position and coldly says, “Adios Chad.”

 

He laughs, again, and Shaw's eye ticks, again. He must think she's the funniest fucking woman in the world because he doesn't stop laughing for long time. All the while, Shaw is just gritting her teeth behind her lips and clenching her fists underneath the table. And when it does end, it tapers off into this _whew_ , and he finally looks to Shaw who's been glaring daggers his way the entire time. The smile fades from his face as he connects the dots.

 

“But the bell hasn't even rung yet,” he weakly protests, and Shaw deadpans more adamantly.

 

“ _Chad_...”

 

She thinks he gets the picture as he starts to slink from his chair, but slowly, like he's still unsure until Shaw waves a little goodbye with her fingers and then it's set in stone. When he goes to reach for his drink still lying on the table, Shaw tuts and shakes her head. “Leave it.”

 

She takes a sip as he walks away, making a funny face at his fruity choice of cocktail. Well, at least there's alcohol in it, somewhere, she can faintly taste it behind all the sugary juice. Shaw chugs the rest, there wasn't nearly enough to begin with anyway.

 

“ _I think you just broke the speed dating record Shaw._ ” A familiar saccharine voice chimes through her earpiece.

 

Root. Right on schedule.

 

“ _A little harsh don't you think?_ ”

 

“Get off the comms Root,” Shaw says in a low voice, hardly moving her lips at all. “I'm on a _mission_.”

 

Only, this isn't a mission, she thinks. This is a side job, a favor, a shit show slowing turning into a train wreck.

 

“ _A mission involving you breaking hearts in a sexy cocktail dress and high heels... why wasn't I invited?”_

 

Apart from the fact that Root would just distract her the entire time with various come ons and fuck me silly heart eyes... and if Shaw ever saw anyone flirting with Root, the emergency room staff at the nearest hospital would definitely have their work cut out for them.

 

“Because, no one likes your one liners.” Well, Shaw does a little. A very small, teeny tiny amount in the tens of hundreds of thousands past the decimal point... and secretly.

 

“ _Aw, don't be a grumpy Sam_.” Root sounds like she's pouting... sounds like.

 

Shaw sighs, looking around the room. “Well I can't help it, can I?”

 

She doesn't belong here, and it's not in some insecure kind of way. She literally fucking hates it here. Hates the triviality of it all, hates the fake laughter and the fake smiles and the fact people have turned dating into some game of roulette to help them find romance and _love,_ so that they can achieve their white picket fence pipe dreams faster. Shaw just rolls her eyes at all of that nonsense. Content with what she has already.

 

“ _Oh sweetie, I know_ ,” and now she sounds like she's sympathizing. “ _Tell you what... If you make all the boys cry tonight, we can have our own little speed dating misadventure when you come home_.”

 

“And why would I wanna do that?” Shaw says, refusing to read into Root's subtext.

 

She can hear Root groan a little in frustration over the ear piece. “ _It'll be different, trust me_.”

 

“How?” Shaw asks skeptically, wanting more proof and details before she agrees to anything. Also, she likes to spoil her own surprises.

 

“ _Same concept really. Only, when the timer goes off, we move into a different.. compromising position for another rigorous five minutes or so..._ ” Her tone is absolutely dripping with sultriness and mischief. Hot and heavy in Shaw's ear. She looks to the camera on the ceiling that's pointed her way, smirking as she arches a brow, letting Root know that she may be a little intrigued now.

 

“ _Oh Sameen_...'' Root practically purrs as she breathes out. “ _You're gonna love number 38_...”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“ _Oh yeah. In fact... you're gonna tell me just_ how _much you love it... over and over... and over again. Until you can't speak anymore. Or move for that matter._ ”

 

Does Root have some sort of kinky list of things she'd like to do that they haven't done already? Shaw bites her lip as she imagines what kind of fucked up position number 38 is, and what the rest might be. If they're going to start at 1 and go in order or... by the time they get to 38 it would have been... over three hours... like, what even is this? Root's version of tantric kamasutra?

 

“ _You look so cute when you're doing sex math in your head._ _So, how bout it Shaw?_ ”

 

“Okay Root,” Shaw nods, smirking some, “You're on.”

 

Little does Root know, Shaw had every intention of making people cry tonight. The fact that they've turned it into a game that Shaw was already confident that she'd win, well... it's an added bonus.

 

Shaw looks back to the camera then. “Now, get off the comms,” she says, and she can hear Root chuckling.

 

“ _Okay sweetie. Have fun and remember, be yourself._ ” Root says right before the click that means she's disconnected, right before the bell goes off and the girl with the microphone says times up.

 

x

 

The next man approaches her table, and Shaw can already feel the smugness oozing from his pores, his designer suit and that $200 hair cut. He places his drink on the table and, wouldn't you know, it's scotch, just the way Shaw likes it. Neat. He sits down and gets straight to business.

 

“Name's Bryce. I'm a big broker on Wall Street...”

 

Go figure, Shaw thinks and forces herself not to roll her eyes at that one.

 

“You may have heard of my company. Not to brag or anything...”

 

Somehow, that's hard to believe.

 

“But, we're up there with Goldman Sachs. Oh and the _pay...whew!”_

 

Okay, now Shaw will roll her eyes, only because he's too busy admiring his Rolex.

 

“Hell, sometimes I don't even know what to do with it all, y'know?”

 

Shaw has a good idea. She thinks he should donate to the _Foundation to Find the Cure for Douchebags._

 

“Yeah... I'm just looking for a woman who wants to have a good time. Help me _spread_ the wealth.”

 

Oh, okay, he's actually done talking now.

 

“You work on Wall street? That's _so_ interesting...” Shaw says even though it really isn't. An idea suddenly flashes in her mind, a grand scheme she decides to roll with. “Because... I'm in a similar line of work actually.”

 

“Oh yeah?” he says, lifting his drink. “Anyplace I'd know?”

 

“Ever heard of the _FBI_?”

 

The near spit take is glorious.

 

“I mean,” Shaw goes on unaffected while he coughs, “It's not top on the list when it comes to intelligence agencies like... the _CIA..._ But it's up there.”

 

He finally settles himself, wiping a dribble of scotch from his chin and clearing his throat one last time. “FBI huh...” he parrots, weakly, Shaw notices. “What-um... what uh, field did you say you were in?”

 

Shaw was very much hoping he would ask.

 

“Broker fraud... insider trading. You know, that kinda stuff,” she replies nonchalantly, noting how his face just turned a whiter shade, a sickly pale color. Shaw muses a few things in her head. Why a Wall Street broker would ever be nervous around a government agent, that's just silly. Unless he's hiding something. Something illegal involving his work. It seems she's just struck the holy grail of chords within him, judging by the way this self involved braggart is all of a sudden so quiet and fidgety, a little warm under the collar. It's a solid 72 degrees in here, and yet, he's perspiring rather profusely.

 

Shaw decides to get a bit more creative, see if she can push him right to the edge, sweat him of everything he knows.

 

“Right now, I'm looking for a person... a very naughty person... who likes to get their hands dirty in other people's pockets, spreading the wealth that doesn't belong to them...” And it's like suddenly, she's shined headlights on a very guilty looking deer in middle of the road. She eyes him in fabricated suspicion and coyly asks, “You don't know where I could find such a person, do you?”

 

Gulping hard, “No...” he replies, so sheepishly. And oh, he's done for.

 

Shaw slams her palm hard against the table between them and it startles him so much he practically jolts right off the seat. “Cut the act Bryce! We know what you've been up to!”

 

“You d-d-do?”

 

“We know _everything_!” Shaw scowls. “But you're just small time, Bryce, and we don't care about small time.”

 

“You don't?”

 

“You look like a nice guy, so I'll cut you a deal.” Shaw pulls out the photo of Rachel, slides it across the table, and taps it. “You seen this girl here last week?” He looks at it for a moment and shakes his head vigorously.

 

“I've never seen her before in my life,” he answers. Shaw reaches the small distance across the table, smirking as her fingers play with his necktie.

 

“I really hate it when people lie to me,” she sighs, then quickly yanks the tie, drawing him closer so that they're nearly nose to nose. “Do you know what happens when people lie to me?”

 

He speechlessly shakes his head.

 

“I get very, _very_ angry,” she growls, “And I _ruin_ people.”

 

Panicked, frightened, Shaw revels in his disposition. Relishes the moment that follows, which could only be described as word vomit, as Bryce spills his guts.

 

“I'm telling the truth! I swear! I wasn't even here last week! I was working late on the Florence exchange- oh my god, this about the Florence deal isn't it?”

 

Shaw rolls eyes and huffs, letting go of his tie in favor of his scotch. Another dead end, she thinks, ready to move on to the next. But her friend Bryce continues to spout more information than she would ever care to know.

 

“I swear to god I didn't know they were siphoning funds until it was too late and they told me to keep my mouth shut or else they'd- it's them you want! Not me! I'm just a junior broker! I'm not even a blip on the radar!”

 

Very interesting... the scotch that is. It's a strong single malt with an intriguing aftertaste that Shaw can't quite put her finger on. Meanwhile, Bryce decides to put his fingers on her.

 

“Please! You have to believe me!” He pleads, grabbing the free hand Shaw had resting on the table. Why do people get so touchy when they're emotional?

 

Shaw slinks her arm away. “Okay. I believe you,” she shrugs. “We're done here.”

 

“So I'm free to go?”

 

She pinches the bridge of her nose. Is she speaking another language or something? Is she unknowingly putting out cryptic mixed signals in her speech. No, she thinks. People are either dumb or hard of hearing.

 

“Yes! Go! Be free!” She shoos him off. This immediate relief washes over him, and he laughs crazily, wiping the sweat from his brow.

 

“Thank god,” he says, like he's just dodged something dangerous. Though, what he doesn't know, the threat is still very much real. Why? Because he's still within a deadly radius of Shaw.

 

“I suppose this is the part where you tell me not to leave town, huh?” He jokes, making light of everything, moving his mouth instead of his feet.

 

“No,” Shaw shakes her head, gives him this dead eyed look that has yet to fail her. “This is this the part where I tell you to run for your life.”

 

Fear. Shaw has a gift of pulling it from people, reshaping it, twisting it around and shoving it back down their throats simply with a look, a few choice words. He stops laughing right then and there, frozen in this deep fear realized. Like he could shatter into a million pieces with a light flick of her finger.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she says. “ _Run_.”

 

And he does just that, runs right out the front door, gathering attention from every patron he had bumped into along the way. 

 

Shaw is immune to small commotion. She crosses her legs and leans back in her chair, carefree, nursing the glass of scotch. Smacking her lips as she draws them back, she frowns at the glass. Wrong about only one thing so far.

 

“Hmm...” So it was bourbon after all.

 

x

 

“Sup lil mama.” The new occupant across the table licks his lips and grins, revealing a full set of gold teeth jeweled with diamonds, which, happen to pair well with his chin strap beard and really bring out his eyes.

 

Shaw mentally cracks her knuckles and gears herself up for this one.

 

Meet Mike. Mike is what most would refer to as a player. But to Shaw, he's just a player in her game.

 

“Sup...” Shaw nods.

 

“So what are you like, latina or something?”

 

Really?

 

“Or something,” she replies, through the clenched teeth of her most fake smile this evening.

 

“It's cool, it's cool,” he lightly reassures. “No worries baby. I'm into that.”

 

_Mama? Baby?_ The glass in her hand might damn well break if he calls her one more pet name.

 

“And _that_ is?”

 

“You know. I like my honey's a lil sun kissed, nah-mean?” He winks and shoots her finger.

 

“ _Nah_ ,” Shaw shakes her head. “I really don't.”

 

“I'm sensing a some hostility from you sweetheart.”

 

 _Sweetheart_...This might actually be the first person Shaw hits on tonight. Literally.

 

“C'mon, tell Big Mike what's on your mind.”

 

Shaw releases the glass in her hand before it shatters, putting on her best forlorn and troubled face. Pretending that she has more worrisome thoughts on her mind other than if those fake diamonds in his mouth will split her knuckles.

 

“Well, Big Mike,” she sighs. “I came here with a friend last week. You would have liked her, she's a honey. Anyways, she went home with some guy she met and I haven't heard from her since. I guess... I'm just worried.”

 

“I feel you.”

 

“You weren't here last Friday were you?” Shaw says with a glint of hope batting away from her eyelashes. “Maybe you might have seen her?”

 

“Sorry boo, I just got here yesterday from Vegas,” he says, and now Shaw's not going to bother reaching into her cleavage this time for the photo. “I'm on one of those traveling poker tournaments. You know, they set me up in this nice penthouse just a few blocks away. Maybe you'd like to come check it out.”

 

And that's when Shaw feels something gross touching her knee.

 

“We can talk about your friend, pop open a bottle, see where the night goes...”

 

This is Mike. Mike likes to get handsy underneath tables. Mike doesn't appreciate having full mobility of his limbs.

 

How Shaw would prefer the night to go... the sounds of gunshots, bones breaking, cries of pain... they come to mind first. A violently beautiful symphony conducted by none other than her. She's thinking of sounding off the first measure, starting with Mike's hand on her knee, but Fusco's dumb voice ruins her murderous composure. _This is a big deal for me... no claws... you owe me one..._ Fuck. As much as Shaw would love to make this guy regret everything since calling her _mama_ , she knows she can do better. Sadly, Shaw can be above violence when she wants to be. 

 

“I would love to, but...” she places her hand over his, “I don't think my doctor would approve.”

 

Mike licks his lips again, gently squeezing her knee. “Hmm, you got some kind of love guru baby?”

 

Here comes one of Shaw's favorite parts, the punchline.

 

“Nah, more like... infectious disease specialist,” she casually replies before leaning in and whispering, “I have this _thing_... incurable... _highly_ contagious.”

 

Mike finally catches on. He flinches from her leg faster than lightening and backs away a little in his chair, looking confused maybe. Grossed out, definitely.

 

“How contagious we talkin?”

 

For the grand finale. The pièce de résistance. A sneeze, so wonderfully violent, so deliciously evil, forced from Shaw mouth and aimed with precision across the table into Mike's face. And she revels in the way he nearly falls panicked from his chair trying to dodge it, tripping over himself as he hurries off. Far far away from Shaw.

 

“ _No... Please... Don't go_ ,” she drawls, while digging out her compact mirror and fixing a few stray hairs that had come loose. “I'm _so_ lonely.” Snapping it shut, she then notices the drink her companion had forgetfully left behind in his haste. “Oh look. Vodka!”

 

x

 

And so the bell rings again. Bringing with it another unsuspecting victim for Shaw to toy with.

 

“What's a handsome stud like you doing in a place like this?” She asks.

 

Only, Fusco doesn't seem to find that funny at all. In fact, he looks a little pissed.

 

“What the hell's the matter with you Shaw!”

 

Okay, so he's really pissed.

 

“Is this seat haunted or somethin? Because every guy that sits here runs away lookin like they just got spooked!”

 

“Boo,” Shaw replies without care, finding more concern that the alcohol in her glass is running a little low. Fusco has other concerns as well.

 

“That better start with the word _virgin_ ,” Fusco threatens, pointing a finger.

 

“Well...” If it's any consolation. “It starts with a V?” she shrugs.

 

Fusco groans into his palms and gives up. “Ya got anything yet?” he eventually asks.

 

“No,” she exhales, scanning the bar. “Bunch of duds.” Bunch of low quality, poorly manufactured, powderless blanks. “What about you? Find any future ex Mrs. Fusco's?” Shaw teases. Lionel frowns at her, but his cheeks flush as a result. And why in the world would he be blushing?

 

“Which one is it?” she asks, deadpans knowingly. Fusco had flirted on the clock, probably gotten a number, or two. She wouldn't put it past him.

 

“Yeah right, like I'm gonna tell you,” Fusco scoffs. “Not after what you and Cocoa puffs did to the last broad.”

 

“No one got hurt!” Shaw points out. “Much.”

 

“Yeah whatever.” Fusco shakes his head. That topic of discussion was an entirely different can of worms it seems neither of them would like to crack open right now.

 

“So...” Shaw says, “How about those long walks on the beach?”

 

Fusco lets out a deep breath. “Speakin of long walks, I'm taking a lap,” he says. “Don't kill anybody while I'm gone.”

 

“I promise nothing.”

 

x

 

By the time the bell rings and the next round starts, Shaw's not really trying anymore. She get's the information she needs and goes right to the scare tactics. To the guy that offered her party favors of the white powder variety, she ran him off real quick. Speaking to the imaginary communication device in her wrist watch, calling for fake back up to move in on the 'suspect'.

 

And the following men, she didn't look at or converse with them at all. She pretended they didn't exist while she blue jacked their cells, appearing to be a phone obsessed woman as she scanned through all of their personal information. Shushing them if they ever tried to open their mouths. This went on for quite some time, until Shaw was fairly certain this night was going to be a complete waste.

 

The monotonous bell rings again, and she feels compelled to draw her weapon and shoot it this time. She probably would have if it weren't for the very attractive man that caught her eye instead. Tall, dark, handsome and headed her way. He grins as they lock eyes, and for moment Shaw is reminded of Tomas. Apart from their similar appearance, they both carry themselves the same way. Confidently aloof, charming at first sight.

 

His name _would_ be _Rafael_ , Shaw thinks. 

 

“You look as if you'd rather be millions of miles away,” he says. His voice is deeply accented, as alluring as the twinkle in his eyes when the light catches them just so.

 

“What makes you say that?” Shaw asks, mirroring the tone and flow of his speech. Without even thinking twice.

 

“Well,” he smirks. Shaw watches as he licks his lips, biting her own in the process “A beautiful woman like you should have no trouble finding love.”

 

“Who says I'm looking for love?” Shaw teasingly quips, before she can stop herself. And she realizes then that she's flirting with him. Admittedly, she's sort of drawn by the air of mystery surrounding this suave Lothario-esque figure. The type of man that the old Shaw always found herself in pursuit of.

 

“So why don't you tell me what it is that you are looking for. And I'll let you know whether it's something I can help you find.”

 

As much as Shaw would like to banter back and forth, play out this increasingly becoming sexual conversation, she has a job to do.

 

“Would you be offended if I told you that I'm already seeing someone?” Shaw asks.

 

“Hardly. But it might beg me to question, why you would choose to participate in this game.”

 

“Sometimes you gotta mix it up,” Shaw smirks, teasing the rim of her glass. “Invite others to come and play.”

 

This draws him in, no doubt, begs even more questions in his mind. Shaw can see the glint of intrigue in his eyes.

 

“My girlfriend, she... likes to send me on these scouting missions.”

 

“And how goes the search thus far?”

 

“Well, I'd say...” Shaw gives him the once over and bites her lip. “Tonight's line up is definitely more promising than last Friday's.”

 

“Hmm, interesting,” he says, and Shaw raises an urging brow. “Because, I too was here. And it's interesting that I did not see you.”

 

Finally, Shaw's getting somewhere. Noting Rafael as a possible witness, or maybe more than that. She has to keep him here, talking, see if he has anything else to offer.

 

“Maybe you weren't looking hard enough,” she teases.

 

“I would be a blind fool to let a woman like you slip away.”

 

“Assuming you could ever catch me.”

 

He grins at that, leans in closer, resting his stubbled chin against his knuckles.

 

“So tell me of this mystery woman who does somehow keep you,” he says, and who does Shaw think of?

 

Root... Shaw's never really put her into words before. How would anyone be able to describe her? Root's so much of everything at once. But he's waiting for an answer, and somewhere miles away, through lenses, connecting wires, and radio waves, Root is too.

 

“She's... easy on the eyes. Too smart for her own good. Clever in ways that annoy me... But... she's wild and exciting... albeit, out of her damn mind... and I guess I like that about her. She keeps me busy, keeps me guessing.”

 

“She sounds like a very remarkable woman. I'm tempted to meet her.”

 

Shaw laughs at that. Root's already a raging fire, she doesn't need anymore fanning.

 

Enough already though. Shaw's pulls out the photo of her 'girlfriend' Rachel and slides it over. “So, are you interested?”

 

The next few seconds are very crucial. Shaw slows down the clock and studies his reaction as he stares at the missing girl.

 

Discrete but visible gulp. Slight lifting of his eyebrows. Rapid blinking. Resetting of jaw, pursed lips... micro-expressions tell everything. Shaw concludes that seeing the photo has definitely made him very uncomfortable. But why?

 

“Beautiful girl,” he says. But his smile has changed. It looks forced, fake. It's a veil covering up something else. He hands the photo back to Shaw, his fingers shaking ever so. “I'm sorry. I don't think I'm the person you're looking for.”

 

Interesting. He was practically on board a moment ago. So what's changed? Something is surely amiss. Shaw's gut is pointing neon signs and arrows directly his way. He was here the night Rachel went missing, became suddenly skittish when Shaw showed him a picture of her.

 

She's got to buy some more time, see what else he knows. But it's uncanny that the bell decides to ring now, and he looks all too relieved by the sound.

 

“Well, I'm afraid our time is up,” he says and stands. “I hope you find what you're looking for... Betty.”

 

She watches him walk away, and something still doesn't sit right with her. And she realizes this, when he doesn't approach his next date's table, instead, going further into the bar, towards the kitchen doors, that inevitably lead to a way out. He's escaping.

 

Shaw leaps from her chair, walking fast and with purpose trying to catch up. She clicks her earpiece. “I found my match Lionel. He's headed towards the rear exit now.”

 

“ _Okay, I'll go out the front and cut him off in the alley_.” Fusco responds, just as Shaw rushes past the swinging kitchen doors, simultaneously unsheathing the weapon from her purse. She weaves through the busy kitchen, damning her stature at the same time, unable to effectively see past all the smoke and steam, and over the heads rapidly passing by. 

 

When she reaches the back door, she finds it was left ajar. Her gut tells her this is the way he's gone, so she follows, racking the slide of her pistol as she steps through it. 

 

The alleyway is dimly lit, quiet and still. Shaw keeps her gun at the ready position as she treads, as lightly as possible, making sure her stilettos barely make a sound as they connect to the concrete. She stalks on high alert, senses sharp, tuning out all the sounds except the one immediately surrounding. 

 

It's then that she hears it. The unmistakable noise abaft that pierces through the darkness and raises the hairs on the back of her neck. A click, a cocking of a hammer, coming from another pistol that regretfully does not belong to her. 

 

“Drop it.”

 

Another familiar sound, a smoothly low accented voice. Shaw knows who it comes from before she turns around. Rafael, aiming a 9mm her way. 

 

He repeats the command again, clearly, decisively. Shaw thinks about it for a split second, sizing her opponent up in the meantime. He holds his gun the way a civilian would, queerly. She could easily raise her own in a heartbeat, get off one fatal shot before he even thinks about pulling the trigger. But in the spirit of the evening, Shaw decides to toss her gun away. Maybe because she wants this to be a fair fight, or maybe she didn't get her fill of fucking with people.

 

Once her weapon hits the ground, he's back to his old self. 

 

“I knew you couldn't resist me Betty,” he says with arrogance pouring from his lips, lowering the pistol to his side. 

 

And that's his first mistake. 

 

“You're friend Rachel, she couldn't resist either.”

 

Shaw shrugs indifferently and shakes her head. “Not my friend.”

 

“Then why go to all this trouble then?”

 

“Her parents are just worried sick,” she guesses. “They want her to come home.”

 

“I'm afraid that's not possible. She's far too valuable, a pretty girl like her.” His eyes make the creepy walk down of her body. “But you, I think, _you_ will be worth twice as much to my boss.”

 

_Worth... value?_ Shaw forms an assumption in her head and spits it out. 

 

“So what,” she scoffs, “Is this like some human sex trafficking ring? You pick up _pretty_ girls at bars, kidnap them and then sell them off to the highest bidder?”

 

“Clever little one, you are...”

 

_Little..._ That's his second mistake. 

 

“You might be my biggest payout yet,” he says, taking a step closer. Shaw counts the distance between them. Three more steps and he's in a considerable enough range.

 

“Not really a huge fan of being bought and sold,” Shaw says, and he laughs.

 

“When my boss takes one look at you... something tells me he's going to keep you all to himself.”

 

“Doesn't he know? You're supposed to try it before you buy it.” And maybe she's just biding her time, waiting for Fusco to round the corner and shoot this asshole. Or maybe she daring him to come closer. Either way the bait is cast and he takes it. Tucking his gun into the back of his pants, he takes another step closer, and then another. Grinning like a predator encroaching upon it's prey. But he's got the roles all wrong. See, Shaw was never the prey.

 

“How's about a taste then,” he says, taking that last step into the hot zone around Shaw. 

 

The last mistake he'll ever make. Three strikes and you're out. 

 

Shaw just smiles. He wants a taste? Oh, what the hell, Shaw's in a giving mood.

 

She gives him a generous knee to the groin and he grunts, immediately doubling over in pain, clutching the newly wounded area. Taking advantage of his bent shape, Shaw flaps the back of his jacket over his belt and grabs the gun tucked within. “Nice piece,” she remarks, before bringing the butt of it down hard against his spine. He falls, hunched over his knees, wheezing.

 

“You bitch!” He manages to shout in between breaths. And when he looks to Shaw, his face his red with anger and agony. Funny how a little bit of pain reduced this smooth talking not so charming prince into this pitiful heap at Shaw's feet. 

 

“I've been called worse things by better people,” she shoots back. It's then that she hears Fusco's distinctly heavy foot falls as he turns the corner into the alleyway. Good, he can scoop this scumbag up and Shaw can go home.

 

“When I get through with you...” he grumbles through his tightly clenched jaw, attempting to stand. “You're gonna wish...”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes in annoyance. “You know what I'm wishing for right now? That you'd Shut-The-Fuck-Up!” she says and pistol whips him square in the face, breaking his nose. His head bobbles and lolls before his eyes just roll back, and he falls to ground cold. Shaw huffs, “Ugh! Why are bad guys so fucking chatty?”

 

“Took you long enough,” Shaw says over her shoulder when Fusco finally catches up. 

 

“This the guy?” He asks, and Shaw gives Fusco this look like she's heard the stupidest question in the world. 

 

“No Lionel. This is just some random person I decided to beat up outside of a bar.”

 

“Don't gotta be a smartass about it,” Fusco says and goes straight to business, cuffing the guy's hands behind his back. 

 

“Are we good?” 

 

Fusco nods. “Yeah, we're square.”

 

“Good.” Shaw pivots a heel and starts heading down the alley.

 

“Hey Shaw,” he calls out, and she turns. “Wanna stick around for some real interrogating?”

 

That does sound fun, but...

 

“Maybe next time,” she says. “Perky Ball and Chain's waiting for me.”

 

Shaw walks away, smirking, thinking...  _Ball gags and handcuff chains and Root_ ... That sounds like a better date. 

 

x

 

Shaw kicks her heels across the floor as soon as she get's home, hoping the sound will alert Root of her presence. She shuffles into the kitchen, going straight for the cabinet where she keeps her liquor. She pours herself two fingers worth and leans against the counter, sipping and savoring. Thankful to finally be done for the day. Who knew talking to people could be so exhausting?

 

A sudden, constant ringing nearby breaks her focus. The small kitchen timer lying on the counter goes off in shrill bells and Shaw sets down her glass to shut it off. 

 

“Hey sweetie.”

 

Shaw looks up and almost drops the timer in her hands when she sees Root standing in the threshold of the bedroom. She's wearing a short white silk robe tied loosely in the front, daring to come apart and leave almost nothing to the imagination. Shaw's eyes wander up the stretch of her long bare legs as they saunter towards her, to the lace underwear that briefly peaks through the divide in her robe. Root only wears them on special occasions. Tonight must be one of them. 

 

“Were you a _bad_ girl Sameen?” She says, trying to sound sexy, but it rolls off her tongue in a silly way that leaves Shaw grinning like an idiot.

 

“What if I was?” Shaw arches a coy brow and jokes, “You gonna spank me?”

 

“Depends,” Root sighs, dragging her eyes up and down the length of Shaw like she's measuring her up for the unknown. 

 

“On what?” 

 

Root tilts her chin and beams something so dark and yet all the more playful to Shaw. Looking to her in that way she only does when Shaw starts to get too cheeky for her own good. Grinning the kind of mischievous grin which means she's got plans. Plans that she's taken painstaking hours preparing for. Plans that will leave Shaw so utterly spent, she'll have to call in sick to work tomorrow. 

 

“If you think you can last _that_ long.”

 

Shaw gulps. So it is going to be one of those nights. A full fledged marathon of debauchery and Root. Her mind reels with savagely endless possibilities that are, most likely, not even close to what Root actually has in store. 

 

Root dips her head level and leans in. Brushing her lips teasingly over Shaw's, she whispers, “We'll find out won't we?” And it makes Shaw's heart hammer in her rib cage. It beats even harder when she feels Root's lips ghosting over the shell of her ear, speaking commands in that tone of voice that could melt Shaw into puddles of nothing at Root's feet. 

 

“Finish your drink and meet me in the bedroom,” she says. “Bring that with you.” The timer she means. The one that Shaw's holding so tightly it could break. 

 

By the time Shaw opens her eyes, Root's long gone, halfway to the bedroom.

 

“Oh, and Sameen,” she calls out over her shoulder, “If you plan on wearing that dress ever again, I suggest you take it off before you come in.”

 

Shaw remembers then that breathing is, in fact, very important. She lets out the lungful she's been holding all this time, taking back her drink and downing the rest in one burning gulp. Sighing as she sets the glass on the counter with the timer. 

 

How does Root do this to her? Shaw doesn't get scared or nervous, she doesn't flinch at anything, and yet, Root has a way of contradicting everything Shaw believes about herself. Makes her anxious, and it's thrilling, this kind of feeling a single person can give her. This fluttering wave of excitement that Shaw thought she could only get from fighting and shooting guns and driving fast cars.

 

Shaw reaches for the zipper of her dress, but stops, deciding against it in that moment. To hell with it, she thinks, grabbing the timer and marching off towards the bedroom. She wants to see the wild look sparking in Root's eyes when she rips it off her body, right before Root inevitably tears Shaw to pieces. 

 

 


End file.
